


I want to be better, this time

by Pearly_Pornography



Series: Pearly's Preklok Fics [29]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Bullying, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Depression, Gen, a false sense of independence, i walked in on my moms havins sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-17 20:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14196933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: Skwisgaar as a young man.





	I want to be better, this time

He always walked home alone, always. Nobody wanted to be around him. Nobody wanted to be within a mile of him.

Opening the door was like the tale of Schrodinger's Cat. Maybe it'd be fine, and empty. Maybe everything would be alright. Maybe he wouldn't see anything, and he could sit on the couch in peace and silence. But other times, he'd open it and be blinded. Bombarded by the sight of his nude mother. Flesh hanging out on every side, his eyes burning, body shaking. Sometimes he'd vomit, and cry, and the man would say,  _what on earth! You never told me you had children!_

There was no way of knowing. No way of finding even an inkling of an answer, until the door opened.

He covered his eyes and opened the door... and was blessed by the sight of nothing. He nearly cried, feeling blessed, that he could only  _hear_ his mother getting run through like a train tunnel. His stomach hurt. He hadn't eaten all day.

"Moms! I's hungries!"

Nothing. No response.

He whined, shuffling to the fridge. There wasn't much in there... There was some herring left. It smelled okay, too. He wasn't sure how to cook, but he couldn't eat it raw, and hey -- he knew how to hold a frying pan. That was the important thing.

"I's makin's food!"

Nothing, again. He dropped the fish into the pan and turned the heat on. He wasn't sure if he had to do anything else besides, like, flip it... 

He sat down in a chair, toes turned inward. Days like these made him feel small. So, to translate, every day made him feel small. He didn't have any friends, his mother barely paid any attention to him, he only had one true friend.

The fish finished cooking. He carved into it, unseasoned, and ate it. It was mediocre. He didn't know how to cook. He never thought he'd need to. And yet, he did. Plagued by memories he should have forgotten of his mother in bed, feeding her son at her teat, and a stranger at her crotch. Why was she doing that? Couldn't she go a few minutes without sex? Couldn't she have spared him, for a few more years, the extent of her revolting lust? 

His eyes darted to the stairs, where his only friend waited.

She had dark skin, with white spots. Long, tight hair, dark eyes, and a tall, slim body. She sang like a goddess, every note was perfect. Skwisgaar felt he was blessed to know her by name. Her skin was soft, and smooth, and her hand fit perfectly in his. He climbed upwards, to meet her. She sat quietly, a bag strap around her shoulder, with the lights off. Patient, and absolutely silent, until he would arrive. Blocking out the horrible sound of his mother's sexual activities, he pushed his door open, eyes alive with stars, moons and lights. He was always so happy to see her, rested against his wall, sitting on the floor...

His  _Gibson Explorer_.

He tugged the cord on his lamp, grabbing the weighty guitar. He tugged at the tuning pegs, making sure she sounded perfect. He heard a slam on the wall.  _Mom's wooden headboard_. 

"Moms! Stop its!"

_"Shvisgaar! Shush!"_

He sighed. Didn't make dinner, didn't stay quiet, all she did was fuck, fuck, fuck. Skwisgaar could probably fuck, too! He laid down on his bed, clutching the neck of his guitar and grabbing his pick off of his bedside table. 

What song today...? His mind wandered... Maybe he'd just improvise. That was always fun.

He plucked, nervously. He'd never really learned how to play. In fact, prior to  _finding_ this guitar, he didn't even have any interest in playing an instrument. And yet, somehow, when he strapped the intrepid Explorer onto his shoulder, he suddenly knew exactly what to do. Exactly how to do it. Like it was written into his genetic code from the day of his unfortunate birth. It was his only talent, his only skill, the only thing that really made him happy, at this point. It deafened the sounds of the outside world...

_Bang._

Why wouldn't she stop doing that?!

He groaned, plucking even harder, and faster. Ooh, this was a nice one. What should he call it?  _Thunder Hands on Planet Jupiter_ , maybe? That was a bit of a mouthful. He was never good at titling stuff, so maybe he just wouldn't bother. In fact, that was what he said every time he tried to title a riff. It wasn't like he could write it down anyway, he couldn't read sheet music for shit, and drawing guitar tabs was a pain in the ass. 

His eyes closed. He flew away on the bars and notes. He didn't know when he was fucking up. It was quiet, and yet, loud. His fingers worked on autopilot. He heard a door open, not his, but his mother's. Clearly the ludicrous act was over. Skwisgaar sighed, continuing to play, and stared at the ceiling. He wanted to just block out the whole world.

His bedroom door opened. He did not look up.

"Shvisgaar."

"Mm."

"Puts dat t'ings downs."

"No." 

"I amn'ts goin's to says it again."

He sighed. His mother wasn't above smacking him, and he didn't want that for the moment. So he sat up, sliding his Explorer to the side. He always felt minuscule beside his mother. Her burgeoning bosom, her tall stance, her lowered brows... the fact that she was wrapped in a bed sheet... "Whats I tells you 'bouts callin's at me when I ams busy."

"You's was bangin's de bed t'ings ons de walls..."

"Dat amn'ts nones of you's concern. You knows what happens when dey knows I gots kids."

Skwisgaar swallowed, gaze averting further towards the floor.

"Dey leaves."

"E'zactly. Fuckin's Christ..." She sashayed out the door just as she came. "You makes everythin's more complecateds for mes."

He laid back on his bed, holding his guitar. From downstairs, he could hear her. "You don'ts even wash dems dishes!"

 _That was supposed to be your job_ , he thought,  _I hate that I have to be better than you._


End file.
